The Only Exception
by MonsterOfCookies
Summary: When a 'blast-from-the-past' appears, John wonders who The Only Exception really is. Slash, Johnlock, chaptered. (Also being posted on Archive Of Our Own by 3he is the goddamn sherlockholmes11 (that's me).)
1. Chapter 1

**New story! A Johnlock fanfic! I'm just letting the plot run how it wants, because I think this is the type of story that calls for that sort of thing. So it's just as unexpected for you as it is for me. Also, this story is being posted on archive of our own as well as here, and I'm 3he_is_the_goddamn_sherlockholmes11 on there. I've posted the same disclaimer there. Let me know what you think!**

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_Chapter 1_

The living room of 221B Baker Street contained a few unusual things; a spray painted, yellow smiley face on the wall, bullet holes lining said wall, a skull on the mantelpiece, and a Cluedo board pinned to the wall with a dagger.

But the most unusual, in Doctor John Watson's eyes, was the man sitting in front of him right now.

John himself was sitting in his own chair, the tartan blanket thrown over the back, the union jack cushion wedged between the chair's arm and John's leg. His legs were spread comfortably, his fingers drumming impatiently on the arms of the chair. And his best friend, the world's only consulting detective, was sitting opposite him, elbows on the arms of his chair, fingertips pressed together as he bowed his head, deep in thought.

"The daughter!" John jumped at Sherlock Holmes' exclamation, watching with an eyebrow raised as the tall, slender frame jumped from his chair and seized the laptop in John's hands.

"Hey-"

But Sherlock disregarded him, typing away at the laptop, undoubtedly researching the daughter of the famous aristocrat in their most recent case. John sighed.

"Coffee?" he dared ask, and was not surprised at the response.

"John, how can you _possibly_ think of coffee at a time like this?!" Sherlock punctuated a few words with sharp hand gestures and John fought not to roll his eyes, standing from his chair to get his coat, because he knew that in a minute or so, Sherlock would find exactly where they needed to go and not a minute was to be wasted.

Then suddenly, the frantic typing stopped, but the sound wasn't punctuated by the usual snapping of the lid and triumphant cry, followed by either a long description of Sherlock's deductions, or instructions on where to go and who to find. John frowned, turning around and looking through the open kitchen doors, where he was getting his coat, he caught a glimpse of Sherlock.

The tall detective was sitting in front of the small laptop, staring with his mouth slightly open at the screen. John had only seen this expression on his face once, and it had not ended well. He frowned, walking back through to the living room, past the various experiments going on atop the kitchen table.

"Sherlock?" He enquired cautiously, coat in hand as he approached his flatmate. "You okay?"

Sherlock seemed to take a deep, internal breath, and then came the expected snap of the lid.

"Perfectly fine. Come on John, not a moment to lose!"

John stared open mouthed as Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf and swept out of the room, then shook his head in confusion as he followed him, struggling to keep up with his long strides. He bade goodbye to Mrs Hudson, who watched them leave with an air of surprise, and hurried to Sherlock's side as he hailed a taxi.

"So where are we going?" he asked as a cab pulled in front of them, and they ducked into the vehicle.

"To visit Cecilia Jones and her partner," Sherlock replied. "I did some research, and found that Cecilia's partner's jacket is made from the same material as the fibres in the dead man's wound, suggesting direct contact, and the coat is extremely rare, affordable only by people with the amount of money Cecilia's father has, and I doubt any other person wearing this coat would have a direct correlation to Markus,"

"Alright," nodded John. "So who is he? And why would Arthur Jones give his daughter's boyfriend a coat?"

Sherlock didn't reply, staring out of the cab window at the passing buildings, and John frowned.

"Sherlock, you're hiding something from me," he accused, and Sherlock arched an eyebrow, piercing John with green, gold and blue flecked eyes.

"What makes you say that?"

"You saw something...strange, or interesting, when researching Cecilia and her partner, but when I asked you acted as through nothing was wrong. And you're not telling me who the partner is. Do you know him? Oh god, is it Mycroft-?"

He was interrupted by a derisive snort from his partner as he turned to face the front of the cab again.

"Mycroft, boyfriend of an unintelligent, blonde aristocrat's daughter? Really, John, use some common sense."

But Sherlock was still avoiding the main problem and John frowned.

"Alright, then who is it?!" he asked impatiently. "Come on, give me some warning,"

"You wouldn't believe me."

"Sherlock."

John's tone was impatient now, he was getting irritated with his colleague; but Sherlock remained unfazed, and didn't reply. John huffed and turned his head to look out of his window, and gave Sherlock the somewhat childish silent-treatment, hoping it would make him talk. Needless to say, the highly functioning sociopath remained as silent as his ex-soldier flatmate, and the taxi ride passed in an uncomfortable silence, the air filled with slight hostility from John's part.

When the taxi stopped and Sherlock paid the fare, the partners exited the car and Sherlock led the way up the long, expensive looking driveway to the equally large, expensive looking house, and John readied himself for the boyfriend of Cecilia Jones.

Sherlock raised his hand and rapped the door knocker three times, while John stood beside him, peering anxiously into the window beside the door, wondering what Sherlock had been hiding from him. Footsteps could be heard inside, and John steeled himself as the door opened.

"Good morning! To what do I owe the pleasure?" Cecilia Jones stood beaming in the doorway and John released his breath slowly.

"Good morning, Miss Jones, my name is Sherlock Holmes, this is my colleague Dr John Watson, and we're with the police. We are here to speak with your partner - may we come in?" Sherlock said quickly and without pausing, flashing Lestrade's fake badge.

Cecilia blinked, and then nodded with a surprised look. "Oh – sure! Come on in then." They entered the threshold, John still on edge, glancing between Sherlock, Cecilia and the photos in the hallway, but none of them showed a picture of Cecilia with her boyfriend.

The aristocrat's daughter led them through into a large sitting room and invited them to take a seat, before calling,

"Irene, darling, you've got some people here to talk to you!"

John blinked, his brown eyes flicking sharply to Sherlock. _Irene_. The only Irene they knew was Irene Adler, but Mycroft had told him she was dead...

It would explain Sherlock's reaction, though. John had always had his doubts that his friend hadn't believed him when he told him Irene was taking refuge in America. And now, sure enough, the figure coming through to the sitting room was the same, barely dressed woman they'd encountered some months ago.

John remained silent as Irene took in the scene; her eyes lingering on Sherlock's frame, she paced the room to stand beside Cecilia. John stared between them, his old thoughts and conflictions coming back with new ones.

_How was she alive?_ Was the main question, and he frowned in confusion. Their communication remained the same as ever; Irene sashayed across the room with her blue eyes fixed on Sherlock's ever-changing ones, staring at each other intensely. John tried his best to look like he knew what was going on, but Irene Adler had always been an...interesting character.

"Miss Adler," Sherlock's voice was a tad deeper than usual, and he cleared his throat. "I would like to ask you a few questions."

"Oh, this is Sherlock Ho-" Cecilia was interrupted by her girlfriend's coy smile.

"I know who this is. Cecilia darling, would you get us some coffee?" Irene's eyes didn't leave Sherlock's, and John felt extremely out of place, like he was intruding, as he always did when these two shared a room.

Irene had always been the only exception. The only exception to Sherlock's cold, calculating mind, his almost heartless sociopath tendencies. John sometimes liked to think he was another exception, perhaps with Mrs Hudson and maybe even Molly and Lestrade, but what happened between Irene and Sherlock was something else.

John doubted he'd ever really understand the connection those two shared. They were both intelligent and attractive people, but there the similarities ended; Irene had a way with words, getting people on her side; whereas Sherlock was cool, detached, not caring in the least if people despised him. She used to be a dominatrix (John wasn't sure if she still was); and Sherlock, Mycroft had informed him, was a virgin.

Opposites, and yet they complimented each other so well. Irene had loved Sherlock, and John wouldn't be _too_ surprised if he'd reciprocated the feelings. He barely talked after the news of her death, just played the violin for hours, gathering his thoughts...trying to get over her. They were both extraordinary creatures, but Sherlock saw caring as a weakness, and so hadn't hugely shown his feelings.

John wanted to know why she was here, what involvement she had in their current case, why it had to be _now_, after a few cases had replenished Sherlock's mind. Their most recent one before this one, 'The Hounds of Baskerville', as John had named it on his blog, had particularly distracted him.

Sherlock was faced with the second case in which he had been confronted with his own feelings, or lack thereof; attraction and infatuation with Irene, fear and terror of the Hound. Yes, that had done a good job of making Sherlock forget about her, and John thought he'd never have to worry about her again, but now here she was.

It wasn't that John _disliked_ her, per se; she was just very _much_, and a massive change in their normal lives. There they were, a retired soldier and a high-functioning sociopath, solving crimes, forgetting to get milk, leaving thumbs in the fridge, and then _she_ came along and...would _ruined_ be the right word for what she'd done? Sherlock had never confided his thoughts about her to him, and John had felt rather betrayed. He hadn't _expected_ him to, of course, but it was such an important part of Sherlock's life that John had _hoped_ he would talk to him, so he knew what was _happening_, what was _changing_.

And now it was happening again, Irene was...getting in the way? Sherlock hadn't told him what her connection was, why she was here, how she was alive (John doubted his flatmate didn't know, by now). He found his temper getting short again, frustrated that Irene _intrigued_ Sherlock so. _The only exception_.

So now they sat, John tapping on his knees again while Sherlock and Irene stared each other down. Her hair was neatly tied, an elegant knot at the back of her head. Her high cheekbones, her pale, beautiful face, her blue eyes, all mirrors of beauty. She had make-up on, as usual, painted delicately. Her rouge lips curved into a hint of a smirk as she appraised the man she'd fallen in love with, and John wanted to rage at her. How was it that a single human being could be _perfect_ like this?

"Hello again, Mr Holmes," her voice was a seductive purr. John wasn't sure whether he wanted to tap harder on his knees, or stop altogether and just cling to them tightly in frustration.

"Miss Adler." Sherlock's voice, deep and calculating, greeted her in turn, his piercing, many-coloured eyes not leaving the beautiful young woman. "Do you own this coat?" he held up a photo, and John noted that Irene's eyes didn't immediately find it, more interested in the specimen sat beside him.

"Yes, I do indeed. Darling Cecilia's father bought it for me last month, as a present," she smiled, a naughty glint to her eyes as she suddenly sat down in an arm chair.

"I see. Do you know who Markus Smith is?"

"No, I'm afraid I can't help you, Mr Holmes. Why, am I a suspect?"

"Yes."

Sherlock's tone was clipped, professional, and although it often lacked emotion, this lack of emotion spoke volumes in itself. Irene did not seem remotely fazed by the prospect of being a suspect in a Sherlock Holmes murder investigation, and John wanted to rattle some sense into her. Everything about her just _annoyed _him. He wasn't really _jealous_, just annoyed that even though Irene clearly took up a lot of his best friend's thoughts, now and before, Sherlock didn't say a word.

"Here you are," Irene and Sherlock looked remotely surprised by the reappearance of Cecilia, which frustrated John further, considering he'd just heard her plainly walking down the hallway, so the others must have been able to as well, they were just too wrapped up in each other to care.

John fought the urge to huff and smiled forcefully as he took the coffee. Sweetened. Not enough milk. John didn't like it at all. But Sherlock wasn't moving, although John couldn't work out why they were still there; why they were there in the first place. Sherlock knew Irene had the coat; they hadn't needed to come here. Did he just want to _see_ her? How ridiculous. This wasn't the Sherlock Holmes he knew.

Cecilia looked bemusedly between the two, and John fought the urge to share a confused glance with her. Finally, John couldn't stand it anymore and spoke up.

"Are you quite sure that you have nothing to do with Markus Smith?" he asked, and caught the barest hint of an eye roll from Sherlock. He frowned, just as Cecilia flinched and Irene eyed him calmly.

"Positive."

"Well then, we should be-"

"Miss Jones," Sherlock cut him off. "Tell me everything you know about Markus."

"What?" Cecilia looked surprised, but Sherlock and Irene kept their calculative expressions as they turned to glance at her. John suppressed the urge to shake some normality into Irene, and an explanation out of Sherlock, as he watched the scene unfold.

"Don't play dumb, I know you know about him, and if you tell me the right things, I might even be able to lower your sentence a bit."

"Lower-?!"

"_Yes_, Miss Jones, your _sentence_, for the murder of Markus Smith."

John was gobsmacked. It had _clearly_ been Irene! She had the coat that Sherlock had found fibres of in the man's wound!

But apparently not, he decided, as he found that Irene didn't like the coat so Cecilia wore it, and Cecilia's connection also went deeper than what John had originally thought. And as Lestrade and his Scotland Yard crew turned up to take her away, John turned to demand answers from Sherlock after he'd given his statement and reasons for arresting Cecilia, but he caught sight of Irene.

She didn't even look mildly upset as she watched her...ex-girlfriend, he supposed, being pushed, handcuffed, into the back of a car. Her eyes soon flickered away from the car and onto the tall form of Sherlock.

"Thank you," she said simply, and Sherlock gave her the flicker of a smile.

"Not a problem. Glad to see you're doing well." He replied in his deep baritone, and John was no longer fighting the urge to shake him – more punch him in the face, now. "Come along John," he gave her one last, fleeting glance and a wave, and she returned it with a seductive curve of her crimson lips as John hurried after his friend's long strides.

"Sherlock," he said angrily and impatiently. "What the _hell_ was that about?!" he wanted to shout and rage but they were still in earshot of the people surrounding Cecilia's home, and he didn't want to attract any attention. Sherlock didn't reply immediately, hailing a taxi before turning to his shorter friend, an intense look in his currently blue eyes that John had learned to associate with Irene.

"What was what about?" he replied, as the taxi pulled up in front of them.

"You know bloody well, what!" John blustered as they entered the taxi, Sherlock acting as though nothing was going on.

"No, I don't," Sherlock sounded bored, but John was definitely not letting this go.

"That whole thing with Irene! She's supposed to be _dead_, I know that, you must have known that from the moment I told you she was in America because you just _know_ these things. So how on Earth is she here? And for God's sake, why did you give me no warning about her, or that she wasn't the murderer, or _anything_?"

John took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down, staring out of the window irritably. There was a short pause, and then Sherlock said,

"You wouldn't have believed me if I told you she was alive, John."

"Yes, I would." John replied defiantly, not looking at him, but meaning every word. He believed whatever Sherlock said because no matter what happened, he knew he was _right_.

They passed the rest of their journey in silence, getting back to 221B without a hitch. Mrs Hudson greeted them back warmly and John forced a smile in her direction as they went upstairs to the living room, where Sherlock immediately sat in his armchair and rested his elbows on the armrest, tracing his bottom lip very lightly with his thumbs. His eyes were vacant as he entered his 'mind palace', his hair a tumbled mass of dark curls, and John sighed, wondering if it would be worth asking him if he wanted a cup of coffee.

John left him to it. His eyes closed later on as he straightened up, concentrating hard on something, occasionally moving his hands in front of him as though he was pushing images out of the way and calling new ones to the front. John wondered, for the umpteenth time, what it was like in Sherlock's mind, and then, for the umpteenth time, decided he didn't want to know. It looked scary in there.

He blogged while he waited for Sherlock to finish thinking, writing up the notes he remembered from the Cecilia Jones/Markus Flint case. He decided to name it after the coat, and had a vague recollection of Sherlock scoffing at the titles on his blog, but ignored the memory and minimized the blog, needing Sherlock's memory to help with what he'd missed on the blog.

"Boys, someone's left you a parcel!" Mrs Hudson's voice could he beard from downstairs. Sherlock didn't appear to be going anywhere soon, so John stood up and went to go and get it. He thanked Mrs Hudson as he received it, climbing the stairs slowly as he read the label. Subtly, he tried to _deduce_ the label, the writing, the ink, the paper, but he didn't know enough, only that it might have been written by a female because of the cursive. It was about a foot long and half that deep, so John could barely hold it in one hand.

The label read "CD Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson", so the person delivered it personally, as opposed to sending it, and also CD probably stood for "Consulting Detective". The only people that actually knew where John and Sherlock lived were the people at New Scotland Yard and Mycroft, as far as John could remember. And the number of people who knew Sherlock went by the title Consulting Detective was even fewer. John shrugged, then opened the packaging, and then went into the kitchen to open the box itself with a knife.

He blinked as he lifted the flaps; it was a white, furry coat, clearly fashionable and John was willing to bet it was quite expensive, too. He lifted it out of the box, blinking in surprise as he realised it was meant for a female. A female sending them a female's designer coat? John was about to turn to ask Sherlock, when his friend's deep voice answered the question.

"Irene Adler."

John turned as Sherlock stood up and walked towards him, eyeing the coat speculatively. "You can see the blood on the wrists where Cecilia killed Markus. You should have spotted that right away,"

"But," John protested, trying to ignore one of Sherlock's many insults. "How did she get hold of it? It should be in evidence at the Yard-"

"They don't need it anymore, they must have tested the coat when I told them to take it in, and with a confession like that, I doubted they spent a lot of time on it. Irene probably had no trouble getting it back."

"Okay," John said, as this made sense. "Then why did she send it to us?"

"Souvenir?"

John knew Sherlock well enough to know when he was being ironic, and he sighed.

"Is there even any point in badgering you for answers?" he asked.

"No."

"Okay."

John dropped the coat back in the box and left Sherlock standing with it, suddenly feeling tired as he went upstairs to his room. Why did everything have to be a _mystery_ about Sherlock and Irene? Why couldn't everything be more simple? John just wished he understood the workings of Sherlock's brain when it came to her, because he wanted to know what was going on, rather than just standing around like a fool and being in the way.

John sighed and wondered if he'd be good enough for anything else.

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**Please tell me what you thought of the first chapter, good or bad :) Thanks!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hola! Chapter 2 is here, I hope you enjoy! :D**

_Chapter 2_

John was mildly worried.

He doubted he really _should_ be worried; after all, Sherlock often didn't come out of his bedroom until late in the morning. But that was usually because he'd had an experiment going on through the night; and last night, he hadn't - unless it was in his bedroom - because they'd gone to bed at the same time.

As he made his second cup of tea that morning, he debated on whether to go and knock on his door or not. He felt a little guilty because Sherlock rarely slept and his doctor tendencies made him worry about that, but at the same time he was anxious that his friend was ill in there or something, which would be even worse.

So, he decided as he finished making his cuppa, he would go and see. He placed the cup on the counter to cool and then approached Sherlock's bedroom door, raising his hand anxiously to knock, fidgeting for a moment before taking a deep breath, shaking his head at himself. It wasn't like he hadn't seen Sherlock's bedroom before (he winced as he realised that the other time was when Irene Adler had knocked him out and he'd forced Sherlock to stay in bed).

Rolling his eyes, he knocked twice on the door and waited patiently for a reply. When he didn't get one, he said cautiously,

"Sherlock?"

"What?" the detective's sharp, somewhat irritable voice replied. Good. He wasn't sick, then, just normal.

"I...did you want breakfast, or a cuppa, or something?" John ventured, but Sherlock didn't deign to reply, and he sighed. "Are you alright?"

"Fine, John."

John could sense this was getting them nowhere and sighed, walking back into the living room after grabbing his tea, and sat down to read the morning paper. It was only later, when Mrs Hudson entered to check up on the lack of footfalls in their flat and ended up asking about the parcel yesterday, that John remembered the coat. It was no longer in the kitchen; that meant Sherlock had it in his room, because it wasn't anywhere else. John frowned. Back to the world of even more hidden truths surrounding Irene and Sherlock, he thought bitterly as he returned to his paper, finishing his tea.

It was then that his flatmate chose to enter the lounge, and John glanced up, raising his eyebrows.

"It's eleven in the morning and you're still in your dressing gown," he remarked, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Your observational skills are as astute as ever, John," he replied dryly, sitting down in his own chair. "Anything interesting?" he gestured at the paper. John took this to be a good sign, because if Sherlock was asking about other cases, he wasn't _too_ interested in Irene and her coat.

"No," John sighed, turning another page. "Oh, could you fill me in on some things about the Coat-case? I'm missing some for my blog," he added, glancing back up at Sherlock. He sighed, and it was clear he was suppressing an eye-roll, but at him, the blog, or John's failure to observe, John didn't know. He nevertheless inclined to help, mostly because it gave him a chance to show off as John wrote, and it gave him something to do.

John was just adding the finishing touches to his blog when Sherlock disappeared for a moment, only to reappear with the goddamn white fur coat. John repressed a sigh and posted his blog, satisfied with it, and turned back to Sherlock.

"What more can you possibly deduce out of that coat that you haven't already in the last twelve hours of inspecting it?"

"Why do you think I've been inspecting it for _twelve hours_?" Sherlock arched an eyebrow, and John squirmed uncomfortably under his gaze.

"Well it was still on the kitchen table when I went to bed, and you went to bed shortly afterwards, and it wasn't here this morning, so..."

Sherlock frowned at him for a moment longer, then sighed in an irritable manner, sitting cross legged in his arm chair, his currently grey eyes inspecting the fur closely. John rolled his eyes. No answers, no explanations, nothing. He stood up, thinking he really should be used to these situations by now, and went to go and find his phone, to see if they needed him at the clinic this afternoon. Apparently not. Well then, he'd have to hope for a good murder to pass the time then.

John wondered why he was the one hoping for it, and not his dramatic partner.

When John returned to 221b later that day, having been out to lunch with Sarah, as friends and no more (John wasn't sure if that was good or not), Mrs Hudson was waving another parcel in his face.

"Another one for the two of you, dear. Sherlock looked busy with his microscope on a lovely looking coat, I thought I'd give it to you instead," the lady said, and John smiled a little tightly. That damned coat!

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson."

He took the parcel. He didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce it was also from Irene; it had the same packaging and handwriting. John sighed and climbed the stairs, wondering what this was all about.

"Sherlock. Another one." He tossed the package neatly onto the kitchen chair next to where Sherlock was standing with his microscope, and frowned as the tall man gave the new package his undivided attention.

"Open it," he said after a moment, and went back to looking through the lenses. John scowled.

"I don't know why she addresses them to _both_ of us, you're the only one that gets anything out of it."

But at the same time, he was lifting the parcel, shaking it to see if he could guess what was inside. He then took a knife and sliced the box open, pulling out two what looked like statues wrapped in bubble wrap. He unwrapped them and blinked with a frown.

"Are you sure this isn't Mycroft putting you up for a joke?" he held up the mini statues of the Queen and the Prime Minister, and Sherlock frowned at the clay models, taking them from him. He turned them over experimentally in his hands, then placed them on the counter.

"Tea." Was all he said, and then he went back to his microscope.

John wondered why he put up with the insufferable git as he put the kettle on.

"It wasn't mink fur."

John startled, glancing up at his friend, who was bent low over the kitchen counter.

"Hnnh?" he mumbled sleepily, having been falling asleep in front of the television. It was late, he noted, looking at the time.

"The coat, it wasn't mink."

"What was it then?" John asked, heaving himself up from his chair, hobbling over to the kitchen to hover over Sherlock's shoulder.

"It was lion fur, John," he stood up and met John's eyes, bright, filled with the prospect of a new mystery. "Lion fur! Why would she send me a lion fur coat?"

"Dunno. Tea?"

"Mm."

John had been walking towards the kettle, and glanced back. He was poring over the statuettes now, a frown on his face as he considered them. Their conversation still hadn't really settled in his mind – he was extremely tired – but he suddenly frowned.

"But lions aren't white," he blurted, and Sherlock looked up with an expression of exasperation.

"Thank you John, although I had worked that out for myself, funnily enough."

And then he went back to his statuettes, uncanny lookalikes of the Queen and the Prime Minister. John scowled.

"So what then, is it dyed?"

"No."

"Bleached?"

"No."

John sighed. "Some kind of...I don't know...albino gene?"

"Yes."

He blinked, and then shook his head with a sigh. He made a cup of tea for Sherlock but decided to forgo his own in favour of a good night's sleep.

"Night, Sherlock," he said, and, as expected, didn't get a response.

The only thing that could distract Sherlock from his new 'case' was a real one, a murder, and thankfully Lestrade called for his help the next afternoon. Double homicide, should have been open-and-shut if not for the bloody footprint outside that didn't match the suspect's.

Sherlock and John arrived at the three bedroom semi relatively quickly, and Lestrade filled them in on what the team had found. John could tell Sherlock was irritated that the 'idiots from Scotland Yard' had trampled all over 'his' crime scene, but wasn't actually saying anything this time. John blessed the silence and followed his flatmate to the crime scene.

The bodies were still there – John confirmed the cause of death – and then Sherlock got to work, deducing everything about the young couple lying in a pool of their own blood. John stood and watched, a bit wistful that he couldn't do more to help, feeling a little useless there on the sidelines.

They were then led to the footprint by the back door, all on its own, out of place, like someone had hopped from the crime scene to there and away. John couldn't make any sense of it but apparently his tall friend could, as a small smile quirked up and he straightened up, suddenly giving off rapid fire deductions about the footprint and his theories.

They had the killer by the evening, and as pleased as John was for it, he couldn't help but think back on the pathetically small amount he'd been able to help with.

"So have you found our mystery albino lion?" John, as ever, tried to coax elusive answers out of his mysterious friend.

"Not yet. Working on the statues now."

He didn't say anything more, and John huffed. He thought back to the day before, and the double homicide, and wondered if there was anything he could do to help now. He sat down with his laptop at the small table, and opened the internet. Searching for 'albino lion' couldn't hurt, he decided, and so he began to search.

What he came up with was actually quite interesting. A zoo in Paris had one, and it had apparently lived longer than most other lions in existence. A man had actually owned an albino lion, but he had been killed on safari about a year ago and the lion had gone back into the wild. Then he suddenly found something that could potentially have some use; a British hunting party had gone out a few years ago and poached an albino lion, then stuck a Union Jack in the ground where they'd killed it just to prove they'd been there.

The British flag could be linked to the statuettes they'd received; the Queen, and the Prime Minister. John felt excitement build as he read the article again, a proud smile lighting up his features. He'd done it! He'd found a connection!

Admittedly he had no idea why Irene Adler would be sending these to them (well, Sherlock)...maybe she was a keen animal lover and wanted justice. She knew Sherlock wouldn't take this kind of case usually, so she sent him puzzles to make it more interesting...

"Sherlock!" John cried, getting out of his chair. "Look at this."

To his surprise, Sherlock actually did, taking the laptop from him and reading the article. He blinked a few times when he finished, and looked up at his flatmate.

"I think that Irene is sending us these as a kind of puzzle, to make you take the case, to make it more interesting. She's probably a keen animal lover, right? So she wants to catch the poachers? And the statues," he pointed at the figurines Sherlock had been investigating, "are linked with the Union Jack, yeah? It fits! And...and we know Irene was an animal lover because she didn't like the coat Cecilia's dad got her, so she gave it to Cecilia. She didn't like it because it was animal fur!"

John was out of breath from his deductions, feeling warm and buzzed and excited, proud of himself for working it all out. Sherlock stared at him for a moment, smile lighting up his face, dark blue eyes shining, and looked away, back to the figurines.

"No." Was all he said, and then he was lost to the world again. John's smile fell from his face abruptly, feeling a stab of pain.

"What do you mean, _no_? What's wrong with that theory?"

Sherlock didn't speak, and John clenched his fists furiously. "What?!" He said angrily, glaring at his friend who was still bent over his microscope. "_Tell me_!" he was borderline shouting now, fury bubbling up. It was perfectly sound! What loophole could he see in that?!

But he wasn't replying, and John snapped, spinning on the spot, and stormed out of the house, flaring in anger at his ridiculous flatmate and his stupid mysteries and apparent compulsion to hide absolutely everything from his best friend, even when he was proud of himself from having learned from Sherlock's deductions.

John sat on a park bench, gripping the edge of the bench tightly as he stared into the water of the pond. Trees lined the path and the water and the park itself, shading him from the sun. Other people were scattered around the park, feeding the ducks, playing football, lounging around. They looked relaxed. John most certainly wasn't.

Stupid Sherlock Holmes and his stupid bloody deductions. _He could have at least told me where I'd gone wrong_, he thought glumly. Just because he was about as useful as a chocolate teapot, it didn't mean Sherlock could just _look down_ on him. He was the one that insisted John came along, even though John did so willingly. But what was the _point_?

Sherlock had said at Baskerville, more or less, that Sherlock basically brought him along to talk to him to get his ideas flowing. That was it. That was the only reason. John was a stand in for the skull on the mantelpiece – more socially acceptable. Sherlock had said John was his friend, but how much of that was genuine, and how much of it was just Sherlock thinking he'd lose his..._talking post_, or whatever?

John's fists were clenched in his pockets and he glared out at the happy people by the pond. Damnit, why was he even here? Because he liked thrills? Danger? What was the point?

His thoughts were cut off by his phone buzzing in his pocket, and he sighed, bringing it out.

_I have a lead. SH_

_Go follow it then. _John was in no mood to gallivant off with his irritating flatmate.

_Without you? SH_

_I'm sure you'll manage. _He had difficulty in keeping the bitter tone out of the texts, then decided it didn't matter anyway.

_I'm sorry. SH_

_For what?_

_I don't know. You're upset with me. Usually when people apologise, the other person stops being upset. SH_

_Well if you don't know what you're apologising for, it makes the apology a bit useless._

_Why are you upset with me? SH_

_Oh just go and find your bloody lion. _

_John. SH_

John, with enormous effort, put his phone back in his pocket and stared defiantly out at the park. His phone buzzed three more times, and then fell silent, and John sighed in relief.

A minute later, he cursed vehemently and texted his flatmate.

_All right, where the hell are you._

Because he really did need the danger, and Sherlock Holmes was his best lead to it.

* * *

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